Your Turn to Suffer by Tim Waggoner (free romance novels .TXT) 📗

The hallway housed a small linen closet as well as a half-bath, but that was all. From here, she normally could see into the living room – when the lights were on, that is. They were off now, and the apartment was pitch black. Larry never went to bed right away after coming home from a gig. Even if he’d had a few drinks – or more than a few – he was too wired from performing to sleep. He’d stay up two, three hours, texting friends and watching YouTube videos on his phone, listening with earbuds so he wouldn’t wake her. Maybe he’d drunk more than usual and had passed out on the couch moments after entering. He snored, though lightly, when he slept sober, louder when he fell asleep drunk. But she heard no breathing, let alone any snoring.

Maybe the noise she’d heard had come from another apartment. It wasn’t as if the walls and floors were soundproof. She could often make out conversations taking place in the adjoining apartments, especially when said conversations devolved into shouting matches. If Larry was zonked out, she didn’t want to bother him, and if the thumps had come from another apartment, they didn’t concern her. She started to turn and head back into her bedroom when she thought of something. When Larry came in late, he sometimes forgot to lock the door. One time, he’d been so drunk and exhausted that he’d left the damn door open all night while he slept belly-down on the living room floor. They’d been lucky someone hadn’t tried to rob them – or worse.

If Larry had collapsed on the couch – or fallen to the floor – he might have passed out before closing the door. She should go out into the living room and check to make certain the door was closed, and if it wasn’t, she’d close and lock it herself. If she didn’t check, she knew she’d keep obsessing over the door, and there would be no way she’d get back to sleep tonight. Without realizing it, she crossed her arms over her breasts as she’d done in the nightmare, and started toward the living room, moving slowly so as not to trip in the darkness.

There were lampposts behind the apartment building, the same kind as the ones out front. Both the first- and second-floor units had sliding-glass patio doors close to the kitchen. Lori used hers as a dining area, keeping a small round table with a pair of chairs in front of the patio door. The ground-floor apartments had individual fenced-in patios, while the upper apartments had wooden decks they shared with the unit next door. They each had a small space where residents could sit and hang out, the spaces bisected by a single set of wooden stairs that led down to the ground. Vertical blinds covered Lori’s patio door at night, but slivers of light usually managed to sneak through the spaces between the slats, illuminating the living room and kitchen, at least a little. There was no light now, though, which was weird because the blinds were old and some of the slats didn’t close all the way. Maybe there was something outside the patio door, blocking the light. She wanted to tell herself the thought was ridiculous, but after what she’d experienced tonight at FoodSaver the idea didn’t seem foolish at all.

She took several steps into the living room, stopped, and whispered, “Larry? Are you home?”

No response.

She didn’t want to speak much louder in case he was here and sleeping, but she could feel the first stirring of panic in her mind, and so she said his name again, speaking in a normal – if strained – voice.

“Larry?”

Still no response.

Even louder now, almost yelling.

“Larry!”

Nothing.

Either he was really out of it – like alcohol-poisoned and unconscious out of it – or he wasn’t here. There was only one way to know for certain. She uncrossed her arms and reached out toward where she thought the wall was, hoping to find one of the switches that turned on the living room’s ceiling light. Her fingers found the wall and slid back and forth across its flat surface, but she couldn’t find the switch. She could’ve sworn there was a light switch somewhere around there. But if there was, she couldn’t find it. Maybe the switch wasn’t there now. Maybe something had happened, maybe her apartment had changed.

Stop it, she told herself. Just. Stop. It.

She took in a slow, deep breath. Held it. Let it out just as slowly.

Okay, so she couldn’t find the switch for the ceiling light. There were other ways to check for Larry’s presence.

She started moving toward the area where she thought the couch was located, half bent over, both hands stretched out before her, ears straining to detect any hint of Larry’s breathing. She walked for what seemed too long a time. Surely she should’ve reached the couch by now, or at least reached something – a wall, the chair next to the couch…. But she continued walking without encountering anything, and a terrible thought occurred to her. What if when she left the hallway, she’d somehow stepped onto an endless dark plain, like the land on either side of the Nightway in her dream? What if the Nightway and the Vermilion Tower were real, and her apartment – her entire life on Earth – was the dream? Was she lost in the lands beyond the Nightway, doomed to wander aimlessly until some deadly predator caught wind of her scent and decided to approach her in order to satisfy both its curiosity and hunger?

She felt a sudden sharp pain in her shins, and she let out a squeal of fright. It took her an instant to realize she’d walked into the glass coffee table in front of the couch.

“Fuck,” she muttered beneath her breath. But despite the pain, she was relieved to have struck the coffee table. The pain